assessed the scene, and the medical examiner’s office has identified the remains….
Molly swallowed the bitterness of bile threatening to rise to her throat. He couldn’t be dead. Not Mitch.
She needed answers. Glancing across the squad room to her sergeant’s office, she wasn’t surprised to see his door was shut. With officers dead, the brass would be all over this case, and no doubt Sergeant Burr was either on the phone or in conference.
She stared again at the newspaper photo of Mitch. How was it possible for him to look even better than her memory made him out to be?
It was the same photo the Tribune had already used countless times in reference to the upcoming Sabatini trial. In it Mitch’s hair was longer, and he sported a mustache and a trimmed beard. Molly had seen the combination on him only once, when he was nineteen, back from Boston after his first year of college. She hadn’t had to say anything about the new look. Mitch had known almost immediately by her expression that she didn’t like it, and he’d shaved for her that summer. Their last summer…
When she’d kissed him goodbye in September, how was she to know it would be her last?
“So you heard the news?”
Molly looked up. Adam Barclay, her partner, lowered himself behind his desk. His blond hair was damp and windblown. No doubt he’d slept in again and been forced to make yet another mad rush across the city so as not to miss roll call.
She nodded, then eyed the coffee cup he lifted to his lips as the steam circled his handsome face. “I don’t suppose you brought me one of those?”
“Sorry. So what’s the word then?” He nodded to her paper and she tossed it onto his desk.
“It’s the early edition. They know even less than the vultures out on the front steps.”
“Walden told me in the elevator that they got only three bodies, and the M.E.’s been working on ’em all night. Sarge talk to the squad yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, this has definitely got Sabatini written all over it. First those other two witnesses and now Drake.” Adam shook his head with obvious frustration. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the D.A.’s office tosses the entire case now. Without Drake they’ve got nothin’.”
Molly refrained from comment. There was far too much truth in Adam’s suggestion.
“Thing that gets me,” Adam continued, “is how they manage to keep this architect guy out of Sabatini’s hands for ten months, and then, bammo. How do you figure Sabatini got the location? The way I hear it they were moving Drake every couple of weeks, and the Witness Protection guys were so tight-lipped about it, I doubt that even we could have found out where they were stashing him. If you ask me—”
But whatever theory Adam hoped to articulate was dashed the second Sergeant Burr’s door swung open. The man’s growling voice brought the clamor of the squad room to an instant hush.
“Sparling. In my office.” With his large frame filling the doorway, he barely afforded her a glance before turning back to his desk.
“Sounds serious,” Adam murmured.
But it was more the abruptness in Burr’s voice that made Molly reach for her suit jacket and pull it on. Sarge rarely used surnames, and when he did, it was no time for informalities. Tugging the edge of the jacket over her gun’s holster, Molly caught Adam’s “good-luck” glance before she headed to the open door.
“What’s up, Sarge?” She stepped into the narrow office.
“Take a seat.”
As she did, Molly was struck by the pallor of his complexion. Exhaustion racked his face, and all of a sudden he looked much older than his fifty-five years. No doubt Sarge had been one of the first people called after the explosion late yesterday. He’d probably been up all night.
“I guess I don’t need to tell you what this is about.”
“The Sabatini explosion.”
He nodded solemnly. “The verdict’s still not in on whether this was a Sabatini hit.”
“What have they got so far?”
“Three bodies…or what’s left of them. Just got a call from the M.E.’s office. He’s finally confirmed the identities of the three officers posted to the safe house.”
Relief didn’t come close to describing what flooded through her just then. Mitch was alive. She leaned back into the vinyl-cushioned chair across from Sarge’s desk, about to release the breath of tension she’d been holding when the gravity of Sarge’s expression reminded her this wasn’t just about Mitch. Three officers were dead. Killed in the line of duty.
“As for Drake, the witness, they haven’t found his body yet, but he’s gotta be dead. There was nothing left of that house. And if he wasn’t in it when it blew, you can bet Sabatini got to him first. Hell, we’ll probably never find his body. But right now, we’ve got three officers dead. We’re gonna see some heat on this one, Molly, and I want you on the team.”
“Sir?”
“You’re my best. I want you to get out to Huntington and start working with the Bomb Squad.”
“Sarge, I really…I’m not sure—”
“What is it, Molly? Your caseload? Adam can pick up the slack on your other cases.”
“That’s not it, Sarge. In fact, you know I’m all caught up.” Just like she always was, Molly thought. Every one of her cases was closed, with only two having outstanding warrants. And why not? Considering the number of overtime hours she put in, she could have closed all of Adam’s cases on top of her own. For a year now, the only thing in her life had been work.
“So what’s the problem?” Sarge asked again, his voice adopting the more personal tone she was accustomed to hearing from him whenever they were alone together. “I would have thought that thorn in your side was digging a little deeper ever since you’d heard about the explosion. Bad enough Sabatini’s going to walk away from another murder charge, but three officers, Molly…I would have thought—of all the detectives on this unit—you’d be itching the most for the chance to get Sabatini on this one.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“Molly, listen to me.” Sarge rose and circled his desk, propping himself against one corner so he stood in front of her. This wasn’t her sergeant talking now. It was Karl Burr, her father’s old patrol partner, the man who’d taught her to swing a bat when her father had given up, the man who had helped build her tree house when she was six, the man who’d filled in at parent-teacher’s night the time her father was sick, the man she’d called “Uncle” for years because it best defined their relationship.
He reached out and placed one large hand on her shoulder. “I’m offering you this opportunity,” he continued, “because I know you want Sabatini. Ever since that son of a bitch killed Tom, I’ve held you back from anything to do with Sabatini. I didn’t think you were ready. I thought the grudge was too deep for you to maintain a healthy and safe perspective. But it’s been over a year now. I think you’re
